


Limbs

by lunalovespudding3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Romance, Slash, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunalovespudding3/pseuds/lunalovespudding3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble based off a prompt from tumblr. John and Sherlock sometimes find that limbs get in the way a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limbs

**Author's Note:**

> Established Johnlock. Just a sweet drabble based off the prompt: "Imagine your OTP trying to get comfortable with each other in bed." From the tumblr imagineyourotp. John POV.

Limbs can sometimes be so uncomfortable.

When I'm lying in bed with Sherlock Holmes after a long day of running and crime-solving and offending Scotland Yard, I mostly just want to sleep. But he's a tall man, with long legs and almost spider-like arms. He isn't given to cuddling - truth be told, neither am I - so we often just lay side by side, in our own separate positions.

Now, however, it is the dead of winter and therefore quite cold. The heater is tricky and sometimes shuts off during the night, leaving us frozen and moody upon awakening, so we decide to band together to share body heat. Yes, that's it. We are not doing this to snuggle, or anything like it.

Currently, Sherlock's left arm is draped over my chest and tucked under the other side, and the right one is twisted behind his back. My arms are sort of pinned between us, and my legs keep fidgeting and kicking his shins.

"This is horrible." He mutters.

I snort. "Thank you."

He knows I'm just teasing, but I see he feels compelled to soothe me a little. If Donovan or Anderson knew that, I'm not sure whether they would be speechless because he actually has feelings (although they have seen the occasional display of those feelings directed at me already), or if they would ridicule him endlessly. "I meant this arrangement. You could never be horrible." It warms me to hear him say something like that, even in the offhand tone he so often carries.

He's staring at me - his bottle-glass eyes, looking right at me. They shine a little in the darkness, the way white shirts will glow.

"Neither could you," I tell him, placing a peck on his bottom lip and tilting my head up to bump noses. He smiles a little; not the smirk he gets at the Yard or the manic grin that is almost always present during a chase. It's that tiny smile that's just mine, just for us.

It doesn't matter how we arrange ourselves, I realize. I don't care if my arm is numb or if his nails need cutting (How he manages to keep them like that and play the violin, I have no clue), because it's all a part of him. And because he's a part of me.


End file.
